"No pictures," says Adrian's voice from behind me. "I'm sorry. We have to keep the line moving."
"Thank you," I whisper, though I'm not sure he hears me.
The appointed time flies by. There's still a line out the door, but it seems like a lot of people have crowded out into the lobby to gather around someone else who's drawing nearly as much attention as I am. The organizers enforce the cutoff time, to a chorus of groans.
As soon as the room clears, I let my head flop down on the table.
"How's your throwing arm?" Adrian touches my shoulder, and it absolutely does not feel like electric sparks on my skin.
"Mmmpph." I lift my head, looking around. "I could use a drink. Or ten."
He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. "Don't worry, Kara's gone." He's making a bit of a face. "I'm sure she didn't mean to be standoffish, she's mad at me, not you. This whole plan wasn't particularly her cup of tea. But I think it went pretty well."
"Sure. That's easy for you to say." I rotate my wrist a few times, experimentally, wincing. "Does it ever embarrass you, the way people gush?"
He shrugs. "Just glad to bring some more happiness to the world."
I search for a hint of sarcasm in his face. "Oh yeah, that definitely sounds like you."
"So how about that drink?"
Is he inviting me? I nod, before I have a chance to think the better of it. I don't know exactly what's happening between us, but at least he doesn't seem angry anymore.
Yet.
***
He takes me to a tiny, mostly-deserted dive that's just down the street. I don't recognize anyone there with badges, thank God, and we're the only two people who sit down at the bar.
He orders two of his usual, and I don't bother arguing, because I don't care what goes into my mouth as long as it's liquid and alcoholic.
"Cheers," Adrian says, lifting his glass.
The bourbon is a nice, warm burn down my throat. I can still feel my arm cramping up, but hopefully it'll pass.
"If I get carpal tunnel, you're paying for everything," I complain.
"Right. Good luck proving you didn't get it from fingering yourself to my books." He knocks back his drink in a single swallow.
I snort. I'm so beyond embarrassment with him at this point, I don't even get outraged. "You better lawyer up, asshole."
His eyes slide over to mine. "I notice you're not denying it."
It's in that moment that I remember he doesn't know. He remains blissfully unaware of my Natalie McBride addiction previous to our arrangement. My face colors bright red, in spite of my best efforts.
"I wasn't going to dignify it with a response," I tell him. Hopefully convincingly.
"I'm sorry about the pool thing," he says, abruptly. He's rotating his glass on the bar, slowly. "Not for the incident. For acting like a dick about it."
"You didn't," I tell him. "I mean, no more than usual. I don't think either one of us knew how to handle it."
"You certainly knew how to handle it." He grins a little. "Sorry. You're right."
Sighing, I rest my elbows on the bar. "It was just unexpected."
He's nodding, gesturing for another drink. "I always thought…well, after five years, I guess I thought if it was going to happen, it would've already."
I glance at him sidelong, cautiously. "You thought about it?"
He scoffs quietly. "You didn't?"
"Not until recently," I tell him. I'm not even sure if that's true anymore.
Adrian's mouth twitches. "Why do you always lie?"
"Honestly, I didn't think…" I clear my throat. "Well it's not that you're not - attractive, obviously." My cheeks are reddening again. "I just never really got those vibes. And I guess I was too busy hating you."
"They're not mutually exclusive, you know." His knee nudges against mine under the bar, and I can't tell if it's intentional or not. "Is it really that bad, working for me?"
A burst of laughter escapes me. "Is that a serious question?"
"I know I'm difficult, but…" He frowns at his glass. "You seem like someone who appreciates a challenge."
"Apparently so." Oh, what the hell. I finish my drink and order another. He's still watching me, waiting for an actual answer. How the hell can I explain the situation to someone who's so clueless? "You call me names, you snap at me if I'm five minutes late with your coffee, and you steamroll over my personal life. You criticize everything. You never, ever say thank you, or even get me a damn Christmas card. But I know that's who you are, and I'm still here, so…I guess that's not really your fault. It's mine, for expecting any different."
He sits there quietly, staring at the bar. I wonder if any of this has gotten through to him, at all.
"I didn't think you cared about Christmas cards," he says, finally. Flatly.
"Is that really your takeaway, here?"
His voice is still quiet. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Meghan."
"Nothing." I shrug. "You're the one who brought it up. If you want someone to blow smoke up your ass, you're looking in the wrong place."
Adrian runs his finger along the rim of his glass. "Hate's a strong word."
"I like strong words." Maybe it's just the bourbon, but I'm pretty sure he actually looks…dejected. I'd laugh if it wasn't so sad.
"Hey," I say, touching his shoulder. "Come on, man. You're a fucking asshole, but I don't really…" I swallow hard. "I don't really hate you."
The moment I say it, I realize how true it is.
"Why the hell not?" He glances at me with a ghost of a smile. "You just described the worst boss in the world. I would've murdered him by now."
"I've thought about it." My hand is still resting on his shoulder, but I don't move it. "But then, who would keep me humble?"
He laughs a little, almost silently, before sliding off the stool and pulling his wallet out of his pocket. "I've got a headache to sleep off. This should be enough for the drinks, and a cab ride home."
I nod, trying to swallow down the sick feeling inside.
Impossibly, I actually feel bad for him.
***
I decide to take the subway and walk the rest of the way home. It's still nice out, and I'd rather be alone with my thoughts. I leave a very generous tip for the bartender, and tuck the rest of the money in my pocket to give to Adrian later.
Why do I feel so guilty? I know I'm not wrong. He needed to hear everything I said. But it seemed to cut him deep, like he didn't realize - or at the very least, didn't want to.